


If You're a Long Way from Home (Can't Sleep at Night)

by TheDirtyBirdie



Series: Prompt/Request Fills [5]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Black Panther (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Bathing/Washing, Breathplay, Cock Worship, Deepthroating, Dom/sub, Hand Feeding, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Safewords, Trans Male Character, Under-negotiated Kink, Unsafe Sex, Vaguely Canon-Adjacent, soft domination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-04-22 16:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14312394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDirtyBirdie/pseuds/TheDirtyBirdie
Summary: T'Challa has somecreativeideas about how to help Peter with his overwhelmed senses.





	If You're a Long Way from Home (Can't Sleep at Night)

**Author's Note:**

> I've noticed that Shuri uses contractions a lot more than T'Challa. I blame meme culture.
> 
> * Peter is about 18/19  
> 
> * Peter is spending his 'gap year' interning/shadowing Shuri in Wakanda (a.k.a. they want an excuse to geek out together and this'll look good on uni aps)  
> 
> * No condoms, as you will already have assumed if you read my stories regularly, but everything else is handled pretty safely  
> 
> * [Type of spreader bar used](https://78.media.tumblr.com/b3b3c2ee1a4474c839a873072f744aa2/tumblr_p8hrchLBcc1x6v86vo1_1280.png)
> 
>  **Forewarning:** Peter is post-op for top surgery and pre-op for bottom surgery. His personal preference in this story is that he's comfortable being touched anywhere, but only penetrated anally, and he doesn't have a strong preference between terminology (i.e. dick/clit etc.) but I use mostly neutral/gender non-specific terms anyways. Just wanted to mention everything ahead of time in case it's an issue for anyone ♥
> 
>  
> 
>   
>  _This story fulfills[a request](https://dirtybirdie.tumblr.com/tagged/R:-SOFTPAWS/chrono)!_  
> 

“You know that you are very obvious, right?” Shuri asks, sitting next to him at one of the benches in her lab. T’Challa is on the other side of the room, inspecting some of the modifications she’s made to his suit.  
“What? No!” Peter insists. “I’m not-there’s nothing to be obvious about. I’m just-”  
“Staring. At my brother, yes. I noticed.”  
“No.”  
“It’s actually a little hard to watch.” Shuri winces pointedly. “I am embarrassed for you.”  
“Oh my god.”

“You know you never stop, it’s kind of creepy at this point.” She continues to tease, voice steadily rising. “I understand that you are not used to royalty, but I’m pretty sure that’s not why you are looking at his-” and T’Challa turns their way and-  
“Why would you- shut up, shut up oh my god!” He hisses, panicked. Shuri looks gleefully tempted to continue, but by some mercy she just grins at him instead as her brother approaches. There’s a teasing look in his eyes, and Peter is agonized by his inability to know what it means.

“Sister, I hope you are treating our guest well?”  
“He is definitely enjoying himself.” She assures him with a grin. Peter wants to die.

It’s impossible to see whether T’Challa knows. Peter’s almost certain he’d been better at reading the other man when he first arrived, before he started overanalyzing every interaction they’ve had. Now, it’s just agony. This moment in particular. Peter’s not certain of the limitations of T’Challa’s powers, but he suspects super senses are a part of the package, which means he definitely heard them.

Mercifully, he doesn’t bring it up if he did. Peter would rather just suffer in silence, honestly. He’s not exactly shy, but T’Challa is an actual king and that’s just not a rejection Peter needs to go through, thanks.

* * *

* * *

 

“Peter, could I talk to you for a moment?” Peter doesn’t jump, he heard T’Challa coming, but that doesn’t stop his heart from rabbiting in his chest.  
“Yeah! Of course, man- I mean- sir? … Your highness?” Peter finishes, cheeks burning. Sometimes he has to wonder why he opens his mouth, at all. T’Challa looks amused and it’s embarrassing but it makes his stomach flip, all the same.  
“As I have said before, T’Challa is fine.” And he has definitely told Peter that before, more than once, but it just feels so inadequate. There’s something about the other man’s presence that Peter just can’t get past, the compulsion to address him as- something, is too strong. ‘Sir’ slips out more often than not.

“I wanted to talk to you about earlier, in my sister’s lab.” Oh god, if Peter thought he was red before, it’s nothing compared to now. He’s pretty sure his head might just explode if he blushes any harder.  
“I’m sorry! Oh, jeez, I- I swear I didn’t mean anything- I don’t expect anything-”  
“Peter,” T’Challa reaches out to take his shoulder under his hand. Intellectually, Peter knows he’s stronger than him, but jesus, his grip is so damn firm, he’s pretty sure he might faint. “Calm down. It is not about that.” That’s not, Peter notes, a reassurance that he didn’t hear anything.

“I am curious about the contacts the two of you designed. I have never met anyone who wanted to dampen their senses, may I ask why you do?”  
“Oh.” Peter’s… a little surprised. He knows it shows, his mouth is a little open, he probably looks like an idiot and does his best to snap himself out of it. “Um, it’s just my senses, sometimes they get a little much, you know? When I fight I’ve got the mask so it’s easier to deal with, but usually I can’t really do much about it. I mean, I could just wear sunglasses all the time, but that might look a little- um. Toolish?” He shrugs, fully aware of the fact that he’s probably overexplained and gone a little off topic, but still, he hasn’t said anything truly mortifying so far and that deserves a little internal congratulations.

“I see.” And, of course, because he’s him, T’Challa’s voice is full of genuine empathy. It feels silly, it’s hardly even a problem worth complaining about when your super senses are too super, but he appreciates it. “Has it always been this way?”  
“Pretty much.” Peter answers with a shrug. “Mr. Stark thought it might get better with age, like, maybe puberty was making it worse, or something, but it hasn’t really wound down at all.” He sighs. “If anything it’s getting worse, I just- I don’t know what to do, at this point.” T’Challa turns with a hum, taking a moment to look beyond the window to their side, he seems to be sincerely thinking on Peter’s plight, if he could even call it that.

“I may know of something that could help.” Something in his eyes has changed when he turns back to Peter. He can’t quite nail what it is, but his chest suddenly feels very, very full. “Would you trust me to show you?”  
“I- yes? Yes.” He nods, just a little frantic. He’s not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to, but he’s almost entirely certain that he definitely wants to. From the grin that covers his face, T’Challa is quite pleased he said yes as well.  
“Wonderful, I will send you my instructions later.”

_Instructions?_

* * *

* * *

 

By the time dinner has come and gone and people are beginning to thin out, heading to bed, Peter is feeling a little antsy. Tying valiantly to silent the voice in the back of his mind that tells him he’s been forgotten. He got his hopes up for nothing.

He understands, of course, T’Challa is a king. He has seriously important things to do, a country to protect and keep running, he can’t be worrying about not-promises to- whatever he is. Interns. A friend of his sister. Some dumb kid with a crush.

He spends the entire walk back to his room reminding himself of these things, and doing his best not to label himself with too much insignificance just because things haven’t worked out. Afterall, he’s not wrong, it really is entirely possible that T’Challa got pulled away for reasons that were simply more important. If anyone would have plenty, it’d be him.

Fortunately, his pity party is cut short as soon as he enters his room. He’s entirely ready to throw himself face down onto the bed but stops short when he notices a sleek, slate-like box sitting on the end of it. That definitely hadn’t been there when he left.

Nervous excitement winds its way around his heart as he spends about a moment in paralyzed deliberation before borderline leaping forward onto the bed to grab at the box. It feels like stone but it’s warm to touch. He’s giddy as he slides the lid away, the first things his eyes land on is the note covering whatever is below it. It reads ‘Come when you’re ready, you’ll be expected.’

His hand is trembling, just a little, with how fast his heart is beating when he moves the note, absolutely not tracing over the ink with his thumb as he does so because he is not that much of a cliche.

Lying in the box is a thick, folded over strip of fabric. He pulls it out, running his fingers along it as it pulls open. It’s smooth enough to be silk, but the weight of it gives it away. It’s deceptively dense, for what it is. After a moment running it through his fingers he realizes that it’s got a shape to it, curving bigger and smaller along the way. For a moment he stares, puzzled, before he understands the obvious.

The places where it curves wide are meant to accommodate his ears and eyes, it’s supposed to wear it. Once he realizes this, there is officially no hope in calming the butterflies in his chest because this is very clearly not something meant to be worn out in public. This is something meant to be worn privately, with someone else, and T’Challa has invited Peter to wear it with him, and Peter is going to die.

He spends the next twenty minutes agonizing about whether he should play it cool, wait around a little, or whether T’Challa is expecting him right away and he’s kept the king waiting. When it feels like it’s been an hour and he realizes it’s only been ten minutes he gives up and decides he’ll just shower- because this is not the time for any embarrassing anything- and go.

Ten minutes later his skin is still radiating warmth from the shower and he’s changed into some of the soft, Wakandan lounge clothes he’s acquired since arriving. He grabs the blindfold, leaving the box behind, and leaves his room before he can start freaking out.

When he reaches T’Challa’s chambers, two of the Dora Milaje are standing outside the door, ever vigilante and made all the more intimidating when Peter realizes that they probably know exactly why he’s here. He’s wondering what he’s supposed to do when he actually reaches the door, does he just knock? Does he ask for permission? Exactly how dumb will he seem if he picks the wrong one? How will the Wakandan war dogs feel about their king sleeping with a huge moron?

His concern is for naught, as he gets close one of them steps in front of him and stops him where he stands.  
“Put it on first.” She nods to the blindfold in his hands. His face is already hot and he has a feeling that won’t be changing again any time soon.  
“Uh, ok. Is- is he-”  
“The king is waiting for you. Put it on and we will let you through.” Great.

He ties the blindfold on, praying his hands don’t shake, and for a moment he stands still, feeling a little silly and taking in the efficiency with which it mutes his senses. He hears the heavy click of a door opening but not much else. It’s almost too good, a little disorienting compared to what he’s used to in combination with the inability to see a thing.

He takes a slow step forward, excited trepidation swirling in his gut as he slowly pushes forward, step after step, feeling almost clumsy with uncertainty. How far does he go? Is he close to running into anything? He hears the doors clock shut and stops, just for a second, to keep his nerves under control. With a heavy breath, he resumes his slow walk forward.

His knees hit something soft, a mattress, and Peter only has a half a moment to realize how ridiculously high it is before warm hands are slipping over his hips. He stumbles back into what is, presumably, T’Challa’s chest- his bare chest- with the surprise. He hadn’t heard him coming and it sets his heart racing.

“You like my present?” T’Challa asks, voice warm as his skin, breath brushing just behind Peter’s ear as he leans close enough to feel the scrape of his beard against his nape.  
“Yeah.” Peter breathes. He’s pretty sure he sounds like an idiot, but T’Challa is pressed up against his back and his fingers are scraping back and forth along his waistband and he really, truly, does not care. He always sounds like an idiot, clearly it’s been working in his favour, somehow, if this is where he’s ended up.

“I need you to do two things for me before we go any further, can you do that for me?” Peter nods quickly.  
“Yes, anything.” T’Challa laughs a little and holds him closer, hands coming up to wrap around his waist.  
“I need you to choose two signals, one verbal, one non-verbal. If you use either one of them, I will stop whatever I am doing immediately.”

Peter realizes that he’s asking for a safeword and the realization that he might need one that’s non-verbal makes his insides melt and spurs a churning, impatient heat in his gut.  
“Uh, I guess- um, snorlax?” It’s the first thing that comes to mind, and Peter figures it’s as good as anything, he definitely won’t say it by accident. “And otherwise I’ll just tap three times. Real quick. Is that okay?”  
“Yes, very good.”

With that, he pushes Peter forward, lifting his legs just a little to dump him forward onto the mattress in a sprawl Peter is sure isn’t particularly flattering, but he doesn’t have time to dwell before T’Challa is instructing him to get undressed. His voice tone is gentle, but it leaves no room for argument and it makes him shiver. As he rushes to comply, not bothering to go slow, T’Challa explains two things.

One: he has most definitely noticed Peter watching him, largely because he’s been watching right back.

Two: he suspects Peter’s senses have been becoming more overwhelmed because he hasn’t had any type of outlet since he’s arrived in Wakanda.

He’ll be honest, he had entirely forgotten that T’Challa had mentioned knowing something that may help him. It makes him feel surprisingly gooey to think that T’Challa hadn’t only wanted Peter, but really did care enough to try and help him. He hadn’t really thought of it, but it would make sense. He hasn’t been going out as Spider-Man in Wakanda, there’s no real need for it, and it wouldn’t quite feel like his place, regardless, and he definitely hasn’t been having sex. In fact, the sad fact is that he has had very little sex, in general, ever. Not no sex, but certainly not as much as he’d have liked.

Once he’s naked and T’Challa has gone silent, it’s incredibly easy to feel self consciousness creeping up his spine, trying to push forward to the front of his mind. He’s never specifically mentioned being transgender to T’Challa, though he’s never been shy about it either, he’s sure he probably knew already, but there’s still the little bit of uncertainty in the back of his mind about whether he mentioned it, how the older man will react. Plus, as mentioned, he’s also not exactly been naked in front of a whole heap of people, before or after transitioning, and now, with nothing to distract him and no way to see his reaction, he can’t help curling up to cover himself a little, not entirely used to being so exposed.

There’s an itch under his skin and he’s sorely tempted to reach up and take the blindfold off when the bed dips and warm fingers reach out to brush up over his nape, winding through the curls at the base of his neck and making his breath stutter. He’s still not used to being unable to hear someone approach, and he finds it’s not a bad feeling, not like this.

T’Challa’s hand slips up over his thigh until his thumb can rub at the crease of his hip and Peter can’t help the small moan that escapes him.  
“You are every bit as lovely as I imagined you would be.” And- jesus, Peter should not be this turned on already, T’Challa has hardly even touched him, but his already amplified sense of touch seems to be overcompensating for his dimmed sight and hearing and every brush of skin sets his nerves on fire.  
“You imagined this?”  
“Plenty.” T’Challa emphasizes his words by digging his thumb into his skin and Peter shudders.

“Is there anything you would prefer I not do, or say?” Right, right, he feels a little foolish about getting carried away without talking about this first, because he very much does have some hard line boundaries, but T’Challa makes him feel so safe, so eager, he’s not worried at all that the older man wouldn’t listen if he were uncomfortable and combined with the overwhelming sensation of being touched it makes to almost too easy for him to realize he’s missed a step or two he’d normally have been through by now.  
“Yeah. I’m- you can touch me anywhere, I like it, but if you want to b-be inside me-” He internally kicks himself with the way he can’t help stumbling over the words for how bad he wants that. “It has to be anally. That’s all.”  
“You’re sure?” Peter nods. “Alright, please, if something changes, tell me.”

“I will.” He promises, just before T’Challa’s lips cover his and all other thoughts are immediately pushed to the back burner of his mind because no one has ever kissed him like this. It feels silly to think, but if he were standing he’s pretty sure his knees would be weak. The older man pushes forward, between Peter’s legs as he covers him completely, letting him take more of his weight, and Peter realizes that, with the exception of some tightly fitted briefs, T’Challa is otherwise naked.

The sheer amount of skin on skin contact is a shock to his system. One of the king’s hands runs down his side as the takes hold of his thigh so he can lift it to his waist and Peter moans up into the kiss as his own hands fly up to grip the thick muscle of the older man’s shoulders, slipping down over his biceps with a groan.

Too soon, T’Challa is pulling back, a small laugh under his breath as Peter whines. He presses a soothing but firm hand flat to his chest when Peter tries to follow, keeping him down.

“You remember your signals?”  
“Yes.” Peter huffs. “Snorlax, three taps.”  
“Wonderful. Now, if you can be good for me, I promise you will be rewarded.” His voice has pitched notably lower, and maybe it should seem ridiculous, but Peter aches at the sound of it.  
“I’ll be good.” He promises, a little desperate.  
“Then we’ll begin.” T’Challa’s body leaves his entirely and he feels the mattress shift as his weight is gone from it.

“Stay down.” He commands. His voice is still warm, but there’s something distinctly authoritative about it that makes him want- no, need to listen.

Anticipation builds in his gut with every second that passes without any clue where T’Challa is. The man is quiet, even with his dulled senses he’s certain he should be able to hear most people’s footsteps, but he supposes that stealth likely comes with the territory, for him.

He jumps a little when T’Challa’s hands slide under his shoulders without warning, tugging him across the bed until his head is just barely hanging off the edge of it. His hands slip away and a strong hand comes up to brush over his jaw.  
“Open your mouth for me.” He’s pretty sure knows where this is going and he opens up easy, willing.  
“Good boy.” T’Challa praises, hand brushing down though his hair before returning to his jaw. His grip doesn’t serve any particular purpose, it feels entirely possessive, wanting.

The head of T’Challa’s cock brushes over Peter’s lips and his mouth waters. He strains forward with a whimper that he’d be embarrassed by if he weren’t so preoccupied. He manages to get his mouth over the tip of him, savouring the heavy heat of his cock on his tongue as he drags it over and around it before sucking it into his mouth.

“You like this.” T’Challa breathes. It’s not a question, it feels good to be able to hear the effect he’s having, it’s hard to believe. “Have you done it before?”  
“Mhm.” Peter affirms around the tip of his cock, still suckling keenly.  
“How deep can you take it?” Peter swallows nervously, letting his neck go lax so T’Challa slips out of his mouth.  
“N-not very.” When he speaks his lips still brush over the skin of T’Challa’s cock. He sucks him back into his mouth as soon as he’s finished speaking. It’s comforting, in a way, but he knows he’ll feel even better when he gets him inside his mouth properly.  
“Hmm. Tonight we will fix that.” T’Challa promises.

When he slips back into his mouth, finally, finally pushing in properly, sliding over his tongue, Peter wants to cry with how much he loves the feel of it. He moans around it as he does his best to hollow out his cheeks. He’s near overwhelmed by the sheer sensation of him. His taste, his smell, his heat, his weight, it’s all so much. Peter feels like he can sense every nerve of him, and yet, with his other senses dulled, there’s a balance. It should be too much, but it’s not, it just feels amazing. He feels consumed by the drag of the other man’s cock across his tongue, stretching his lips.

He’s also finally able to get a grip on the size of the other man. While he’s enjoying the dulled senses even more than expected, it’s torture, in a way, not to be able to see T’Challa like he desperately wants to, but feeling him is even better. He’s definitely the biggest Peter’s ever had, which is no surprise considering the majority of his sexual experience falls under the category of messy adolescent experimentation. Trying to figure out what feels good and what doesn’t, all vaguely tinged by mortification, as most things in his high school experience were.

T’Challa’s fingers begin massaging into the joints of Peter’s jaw as he slowly begins to push deeper little by little. The heat of his hands feels near burning with his increased awareness. He’s not quite choking, but it takes some effort and his eyes are beginning to water as want stirs heavy in his gut. By the time he’s brushing the back of his throat tears are beginning to leak down towards his temples but he’s got a better handle on suppressing himself. T’Challa pushes further, slipping just slightly down his throat, and Peter sputters. The other man pulls back just enough for him to cough, struggling to regain his breath around his cock as he continues to massage his jaw.

“So close, can you do a little better, for me?” He asks gently.  
“Mmhm.” Peter promises around his cock.  
“Good boy.”

This time when T’Challa slips down his throat Peter is better prepared, he tamps down the reflexive urge to choke and T’Challa lingers there for a moment before pulling back, telling him how well he’s done and how good he’s being while Peter focuses on breathing and shivers at his words. He slips down again and this time one of his hands slips up over Peter’s throat, fingers carefully massaging the bulge of his cock through his skin and Peter chokes around him on a sob of arousal.

He finds a rhythm that makes Peter’s lungs burn for air but he’s so consumed by the drag of heat through his mouth and down his throat that he can’t help but appreciate the desperate edge of need. Humiliation burns through him every time the king’s balls come down against his face and the way it turns him on only spurs further mortification.

It’s impossible to say how long they go on like that, but by the time T’Challa pulls away, a string of saliva and precome stretching between his cock and Peter’s mouth, he’s beginning to feel dizzy. He swallows and sharp, gritty pain flares through his throat. He loves it.  
“Was I good?” His voice comes out rough, and somehow still nervous. He’s quite certain that T’Challa will never not be intimidating. In a way, this may actually be the most intimidated Peter has been by him, but every bit of nervousness is intermingled with even stronger excitement.

T’Challa’s hands have slipped away and he’s lost track of the man again until he speaks from the other side of the bed.  
“Of course, you were wonderful.” He promises as Peter feels the bed dip with his weight and a warm, strong hand comes to wrap around his ankle. “Do you trust me?”  
“Yes.” Peter nods emphatically, wishing he could see the man’s face when he chuckles in response.

A moment later, T’Challa’s hand is being replaced by a soft but thick metal mesh, the other receiving the same treatment after a few seconds. Once his ankles are secured, something- a bar, it seems, between the two cuffs is pulled forward so he slides across the bed and pushed back, folding him in half and exposing him so obscenely he can’t help crying out at the shyness he suddenly feels overcome by. One of his hands comes down to cover himself but T’Challa catches his wrist with his free hand, stilling his movement.  
“Shh, be good for me, Peter.” He says, half soothing, half commanding.  
“Sorry.” Peter manages. “It’s just I- I’ve never-”  
“I know.” T’Challa assures him. “It’s alright to be embarrassed.” Something in his tone suggests it’s even more than alright and Peter can only imagine how far he’s blushing down his chest by now. “Let yourself feel it.” It’s hard not to listen when he uses that voice, so Peter does.

One by one, T’Challa carefully affixes his wrists to the cuffs attached to the inside of the bar.  
“See if you can break it.” He instructs him once he’s pulled his hands away. Peter tries. Peter really, really tries. He strains against the restraints so hard his limbs are shaking with the force of it and he can feel his heart beating just a little harder both with the exertion and the realization that he is truly unable to break free. He lets out a moan as his body goes lax, thighs brushing over his chest. T’Challa lets out a light laugh.

“You like that?”  
“Yes.” Peter breathes. “I can’t- it’s strange, but- good. Definitely good.” He settles.  
“Mm, I thought it might be.” T’Challa’s voice has gone just a little heavier, now, and Peter realizes he can smell something that wasn’t there a moment ago. A few seconds pass before one of T’Challa’s hands grips and pushes down on the bar keeping him vulnerable as warm, slippery fingers are brushing down over his asshole and Peter is barely given a moment to process his anticipation before two thick fingers are pressing slowly inside him.

Peter cries out at the sudden, unexpected burn of it as T’Challa soothes him. The only thing he’s had inside of him since he arrived are his own fingers, and they’re much slimmer than the king’s. Not to mention all the amplified feelings Peter currently has going on pushing his sensitivity over the top.

T’Challa pumps his fingers into Peter over and over again until the burn begins to wane. T’Challa’s hand slips from the bar down to the back of Peter’s thigh and he’s surprised by the feel of warm breath by the bend of his knee. The older man presses his lips into Peter’s skin and he’s shocked by how hard the feeling hits him, arousal swelling inside of him sharp and sudden and overwhelming as T’Challa makes his way down the inside of his thigh, nipping here and there until he settles at the junction of his hip.

When he leans in, dragging his lips over the slick apex of Peter’s thighs, he can’t hold back a moan, torn between pushing forward into the sensation of his mouth and trying to pull back out of instinct because he’s already so sensitive it’s almost too-much. The knowledge that it’s likely only going to get better pushes a whimper past his lips.

The king drags his tongue over and through his folds, just light enough to tease, to make him shake with want for more and make his nerves prickle without actually giving him what he needs. He whines and T’Challa laughs low into his skin before finally, finally bringing his mouth to him properly. Peter cries out when his teeth brush over his swollen, sensitive nub and Peter realizes he’s damned himself when he feels him grin against his skin. T’Challa presses his lips down over the most sensitive part of him and sucks as he presses a third finger in and Peter moans desperately as he feels himself riding the edge of an orgasm.

“Please,” He begs. “Please, please, I’m so close. I just- I need-” His words desert him as T’Challa drags his fingers over the edge of him, stretching him just a little wider, and hums deep into his skin. It’s enough to push him over the edge and Peter’s whole body seizes up as T’Challa is careful to keep doing exactly what he’s doing as Peter rides it out. He’s hot all over and it’s dizzyingly impossible to manage a full breath.

The feeling fades and it almost hurts to have the other man’s mouth on him. T’Challa must guess this because he pulls back before Peter has to ask, mouth and fingers leaving him both. There’s a beat where he’s not sure what happens next, not thinking much beyond the sudden coolness of his body now that orgasm has passed and he’s become hyper aware of the sweat slicking his skin.

Then T’Challa’s hand is back pressing down on the bar, bending him in half so thoroughly his knees are touching the mattress, and he can feel the heat of the man above him as his slicked cock drags over Peter’s ass.  
“Oh, god.” He breathes, still feeling so delightfully relaxed by his orgasm that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything but pleasure and eager, if slightly anxious, anticipation. The king huffs out a laugh and reaches down to position himself properly. Peter’s so preoccupied by the feel of him pressed against his asshole that he doesn’t even realize T’Challa is dropping down to kiss him and pushing forward to press him in and- oh, god, it’s- it’s a lot.

He moans up into the kiss, half sobbing into it as T’Challa’s head slips in past his muscle. His kiss is so utterly consuming that Peter imagines there’s little else but the man’s cock that could rival the feeling of it for space in his awareness. The further he pushes the rougher the kiss becomes and the more it burns, three fingers were nowhere near the girth of him and Peter aches with how totally, wonderfully full he feels when T’Challa’s hips finally sink down into his own, bottoming out.

His legs are shaking, not with strain, but with the effort it takes to relax against the way the other man has split him open. When T’Challa pulls back, whispering sweet encouragement against his lips, Peter feels his heart rattling in his chest but it’s nothing to the force of him pushing back in, much harder, this time, to fill him up again. The broken half-moan that tears out of Peter’s chest feels exhausting in itself and as T’Challa starts thrusting up into him in earnest he feels like he might even be sick with the sharp mix of pleasure and pain coursing out through his abdomen.

It normally takes him a while to build back up after an orgasm, but the hand T’Challa had used to guide himself into Peter slips up to press down over him, giving him just enough pressure to push into with each thrust, he can already feel the pulsing, aching heat swelling inside of him. Just as Peter feels himself beginning to crest T’Challa pulls his hand back and stills his hips, without thinking Peter protests, straining against his restraints hard enough to bruise.  
“What- no, why?!” He whines. T’Challa drops his face into Peter’s neck and he can feel his grin.  
“Be patient. Have I not already been generous?” Peter huffs, desperate. He kind of wants to cry. He really wants to come.  
“I- yes? Yes.” He sighs, resigned.  
“Good. So, relax. Wait for me.” And that’s just- how can something be so frustrating and so hot at the same time? Life isn’t fair.

All complaints slip away as T’Challa finally, finally begins to move again. He doesn’t press his hand back into him, instead dropping enough of his weight down low that he doesn’t particularly need to, grinding up over Peter’s body with every thrust, and bringing his hand up to Peter’s throat. His fingers stay there, brushing over Peter’s pulse point as the older man sucks bruises into his skin and his thrusts get harder and harder. When he pulls back to kiss him and his hips finally, finally begin to lose their rhythm Peter is back on edge and T’Challa’s hand squeezing tight enough that he’s sure his vision would be swimming if he could see at all as he gasps into the other man’s mouth, searching for air, it’s enough to push him over the edge as he feels thick heat spilling inside of him.

He’s only tangentially aware of the hand on his throat relaxing and the emptiness of T’Challa slipping out of him, but by the time his vision stops swimming and sparking and his lungs feel full again, T’Challa has settled next to him with something that smells sweet. He moves to sit between his legs as he undoes the bindings holding Peter’s wrists and ankles, carefully massaging each one as he goes, though Peter hasn’t lost sensation, surprisingly enough. Peter lets each limb fall to the bed and go limp as he finishes with them, thighs settling over T’Challa’s own and arms splayed out above his head.

When the older man finally, finally leans forward to carefully slip his fingers under his head and pull away the blindfold the rush of light and sound is a little discombobulating. The lights are too low to strain his eyes, but as he takes in the sight of T’Challa braced above him, finally, he can’t help but feel a little hysterical. He’s known, of course, who he’s been with this whole time, but the sight of him is jarring in a way that makes him feel giddy and warm and he brings loose arms up to wrap around shoulders and reel him in for a kiss.

T’Challa grins as he sinks into it and Peter savours the uniquely lazy pleasure of their messy, post-orgasm kiss. He drags his fingers over the sweat-slicked expanse of T’Challa’s back until the other man rolls them so Peter is momentarily on top, before sitting up so he’s got him in his lap. Peter’s not sure what the protocol is for sleeping with a king- jesus, he still can’t quite get over that part, he just had sex with actual royalty- unsure whether he should be expecting to be sent back to his room any minute now or what, but it’s surprisingly relaxed, it seems.

T’Challa coaxes sweet bits of fruit and chocolate into his mouth and then drags him into the bath for yet another orgasm, this one slow and soft and just as good as the last two, before settling into bed with him, limbs tangled together with Peter pressed warm and relaxed into his chest. T’Challa’s hand stroking through his hair.

As he’s drifting off, his only real concern is which Wakandan universities he should be applying to because there’s no way once is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, I hope you've all enjoyed this! Say hello/leave a comment/request here or [on tumblr](https://dirtybirdie.tumblr.com/) ♥ 
> 
> P.S. I'm not personally transgender and this is the first time I've written an explicit sex scene for a character who is. _Please_ don't be afraid to speak up if you feel like I've made any type of harmful/short-sighted misstep with the way things are portrayed ♥


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